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" MAMMY" 



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AN APPEAL TO THE HEART 
OF THE SOUTH 



BY 
CHARLOTTE HAWKINS BROWN 



Price $1,00 net 



COPTRIGHT 1919 

By charlotte HAWKINS BROWN 



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THE PILGRIM PRESS 
BOSTON 



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DEDICATED TO MY GOOD FRIEND 

Mv^* Cfjajf. ©uncan iWcSbet 

Greensboro, North Carolina 

IT IS WITH GRATITUDE I ACKNOWLEDGE HER 
PiSRSONAL INTEREST IN THE COLORED MEM- 
BERS OF HER HOUSEHOLD AND TRUST THAT 
MANY OTHERS MAY FOLLOW HER EXAMPLE 
CHARLOTTE HAWKINS BROWN 

PALMER MEMORIAL INSTITUTE 
SEDALIA, NORTH CAROLINA 



( 



Jntrniurtton 

This story is based upon the 
following incident: 

On a farm near Sedalia died a 
wealthy spinster who had passed 
her allotted number of summers. 
There survived her a faithful col- 
ored servant, "Granny Polly," 
who for more than a half century 
had answered to every beckon and 
call, from gardener to housemaid. 
This "Mammy" lived within a few 
feet of the back door of her 
"Charge" in a makeshift cabin, 
the last left from a group of 
homes used for slave quarters. 

Among the many large and 
gracious bequests left to distant 
relatives and friends, "Mammy" 
received the handsome legacy of 
twenty-five dollars. 



vu 



INTRODUCTION 

She, now past eighty, is still 
digging in the garden of a grand- 
child who gave her shelter. Her 
best days are gone. Others enjoy 
the fruits of her many years of 
labor. 

She is but one of many who 
are left destitute in old age by 
those she has been faithful to unto 
death. 



Vlll 



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iHammp 



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F there is any word 
that arouses emo- 
tion in the heart of 
a true Southerner, 
it is the word, 
His mind goes back 
to the tender embraces, the watch- 
ful eyes, the crooning melodies 
which lulled him to rest, the sweet 
old black face. "What; a mem- 
ory!" he exclaims. 



"Mammy.' 



The old cabin leaning far 
towards the rising sun told that 
its day was far spent. Here 
and there, a sill seemed held up 
by a post, one end of which was 
buried deep in the ground about 
eight or ten feet away from the 
[1] 



"MAMMY" 

flint rock foundation — a true relic 
of slavery days. 

It was the only one of its kind 
in the neighborhood, but the land 
on which it stood was eyed by 
real estate dealers and owners 
who vied with each other as to 
the purchase of this extraordina- 
rily valuable piece of property. 
The yard had a look of desolation 
and neglect, yet the sweet-scented 
magnolias, roses and syringas, now 
almost covered with vines, told 
that long ago a lover of art and 
beauty had lent a charm to this 
now forlorn hovel. 

The back yard of the cabin 
opened into the back yard of a 
regal looking mansion, once the 
home of one of Virginia's prom- 
inent governors. Its stately, mas- 
sive columns gave it the style 
and dignity of architecture re- 
[2] 



"MAMMY" 

moved a hundred years from the 
twentieth century. This spacious 
residence was occupied by the 
fourth or fifth generation of the 
Brethertons, the mere mention of 
whose name gave tone and color 
to any picture of social life in 
Virginia. Liike many of their 
kind, the Brethertons had fought 
and lost, and all that was left to 
them after the sixties were the 
home and the name which made 
a Bretherton hold his head high 
even though his feet were bare. 
The Brethertons had been com- 
pelled to sell, acre by acre, the 
large farm on which a thousand 
or more negroes had spent days 
of toil. Costly residences now 
enclosed them, until only Aunt 
Susan and her "Ole Man," as 
she called him, could point to the 

[:3] 



"MAMMY" 

spot that marked the slave quar- 
ters fifty years before. 

Aunt Susan had been the 
"Mammy" of the family for 
years before the war. She loved 
to recall the words of old Colonel 
Bretherton, who said to her as the 
last man of the family joined the 
Confederate army, to bind closer 
the chains that held her people: 
"Susan, take care of my wife 
and children, and if I never come 
back, stay here; if they starve, 
starve with them ... if they 
die, die with them." 

The old Colonel never re- 
turned, and though Aunt Susan 
heard the voice of freedom call- 
ing to her a few years after- 
wards, she had given her word 
to the Colonel and she kept it 
until the day of her death. 

The "ole man" had been 
[4] 



"MAM MY" 

Colonel's body-guard. It was 
he who brought the news of 
Colonel's death; his own strong 
arm had borne the fainting Mis- 
tress to the couch of down, but 
now he sat by the fireside in the 
old cabin, a paralytic, scarcely 
able to help himself. 

Three times a day for forty 
years as regular as a clock, dear 
Aunt Susan went back and forth 
to the "white folks' " house, and 
cooked the food that the Brether- 
tons thrived on. 

The sons grew to manhood and 
married. Their children and their 
children's children climbed up on 
Mammy's knee, nursed often 
from Mammy's bosom, for one 
daughter had given her life to 
give to the world a new life, and 
this new life lived and thrived 
from blood of Mammy's blood, 
[5] 



"MAMMY" 

flesh of Mammy's flesh. This 
child called "Edith," because she 
was the image of her girl mother, 
Edith, always seemed "near" to 
Mammy. She was now a young 
"Miss" at Boarding School, and 
Mammy's famous beaten biscuits 
always adorned her lunch when 
she was leaving, and were never 
missing from the Thanksgiving 
box. Then, there was something 
so historically romantic about the 
reference when Edith could say 
to the girls, "My dear old black 
Mammy baked the biscuits just 
for me. She's been a servant in 
our family for forty years or 
more." This statement carried 
with it a degree of aristocracy 
that only a Southerner can ap- 
preciate. 

Mammy had long ago laid to 
rest her own little babe, as she 
[61 



"MAMMY" 

always spoke of him, although 
he had grown to manhood long 
before. He had offered her a 
home and every comfort in the 
North; she preferred the cabin, 
it seemed — no, it was not the 
cabin, for ofttimes, on bitter cold 
nights when the winds would 
whistle, she would kneel and ask 
God to be a foundation for the 
old cabin, until the coming of 
another day, for each moment she 
thought it would rock its last 
time. But, ah, the solemn prom- 
ise to the Colonel, "till I die!" 

Mammy was getting old and 
rheumatism had set in, so the 
"white folks" had to get a 
j^ounger woman to do the cook- 
ing, but she must be on hand 
to do the seasoning, because a 
Bretherton would not eat a meal 
at Stone Ledge, as the old Man- 
[7] 



"MAMMY" 

sion was called, unless Mammy 
had a hand in it. 

The days went by wearily for 
Mammy's "ole man," but the 
sweet patience with which the 
loyal soul watched over him was 
beautifully pathetic. "Ole Missus 
don't come no more to see lis, and 
de young 'uns has forgotten us," 
he thought. 

The old ties of former days 
had been broken between him and 
the friends of his own race; they 
had moved away. New folks 
who had no interest in him 
had come to town. Sometimes 
Mammy would find him helpless 
at the wood pile where he had 
presumed upon the strength of 
his one good side to lighten her 
burden to get the wood. 

"Ole man," she would say, "I 
don' tole you to stay in de house 
[8] 



''MAMMY" 

and let me wait on you; you done 
been faithful to me and de white 
folks for many a year, and dere 
ain't no use in frettin' 'cause you 
ain't young and spry." And 
Mammy would heave a sigh, for 
growing signs of neglect had 
weighed heavily on her, since old 
Mrs. Bretherton hadn't been able 
to get around. 

*' Sometimes dere ain't any wood, 
and sometimes dere ain't much 
left on the table for my old man. 
Things am gettin' kind o' curious. 
Dese here young folks ain't got 
no time for us. Dey jest like to 
p'int at us for the family's sake," 
thought she, but to encourage 
"Pappy," as she sometimes called 
him, she spoke out in jolly tones, 
"Go long, Pappy, 'twice a child 
an' once a man,' Colonel used to 
say; and I 'spec' you's done 
[91 



"MAMMY" 

reached dat second childhood. 
You want dese young 'uns run- 
ning down here a-climbin' on 
your knees like dey use to," and 
she turned her face to hide the 
tears. "We'se been faithful; dese 
hands hab nursed ebry child in 
dat Bretherton family. I'se laid 
'em on my lap and hugged 'em to 
my breast, — lors a mussy, I lubs 
dem children, but little Miss Edith 
is the only one that thinks enough 
of Mammy to come down here 
to de old cabin and see how 
we-uns is libin'." 

"Bless ma soul, Christmas is 
coming, and I looks for her like 
robins do the spring; she brings 
sunshine," said Pappy. 

Miss Edith came home, bringing 

some of her friends from the 

North who attended St. Mary's 

school — one of the most select 

[10] 



"MAMMY" 

boarding-schools in the country. 
She wanted to give them a taste 
of a Southern Christmas. 

The very interesting course in 
sociology in school had attacked 
the cabin life in which the white 
people had forced the negroes to 
live, and Edith had become popu- 
lar by telling of her beloved 
Mammy, and how she had found 
shelter within reach of them for 
forty years, how her mother, 
grandmother and great-grand- 
mother had cared for her and 
met her every need. Everybody 
had warmed up to Edith because 
of this interesting account of 
"negro fidelity" and "white de- 
votion." 

Hardly had Edith exchanged 

greetings with the home folks 

before she realized that it would 

be perfectly natural for the girls 

[11] 



"MAMMY" 

to want to see this beautiful 
picture of service and gratitude. 
She began to talk it over with 
her mother (by the way, this 
mother was a new one whom 
Edith's father had chosen for her 
long before Mammy had given 
up her claim to be the child's sole 
guardian). 

"Mother," said Edith, "it would 
never do to carry the girls down 
to the 'ole cabin.' I know it's 
spotless, but it looks as if it would 
tumble down every minute, and 
when I was there last fall, Mammy 
had a wash tub on top of the bed 
to catch the large drops of rain." 

"Why didn't you tell your 
papa?" said her mother. 

"Mother," Edith answered, "I 

did, but papa said the old folks 

hadn't long to live, and as soon as 

they were dead the cabin would 

f 12 1 



"M AMM Y" 

be torn down and the property 
would be for sale, and he said it 
was useless to spend any money 
on it." 

"Well, don't let the situation 
worry you, little girl," remarked 
her mother, "your friends will be 
having such a gay time that the 
question of sociology in these 
quarters will not enter their 
thoughts." 

But in spite of Mrs. Brether- 
ton's desire to brush aside the 
thought of neglect of the two old 
folks who had been faithful so 
long, she could not wholly dis- 
miss it. 

"Listen, Edith," said her 
mother, "we ought to do more 
for Mammy. This winter when 
your papa's business was about 
to fail, Mammy somehow or other 
noticed that something had hap- 
[13 1 



"MAM MY" 

pened. It was really necessary 
to cut down the food supply. 
She sought the confidence of your 
grandmother, who loves Mammy 
as a sister, you know; Granny 
told her all. Edith, it would 
have brought tears to your eyes 
if you had seen them weeping 
on each other's shoulders. I saw 
Granny count out ten one hun- 
dred dollar bills that Mammy 
handed to her which she said she 
had kept as her son's * 'surance 
money.' 

"We all thought that boy 
worthless. I could not under- 
stand, but I followed Mammy to 
the back door. I saw her look 
towards heaven as she said ear- 
nestly, Till I die.' " 

The tearsf; trickled down Edith's 
cheeks, but like most young peo- 
ple, it was an emotion for the 
[14] 



moment. She went back into her 
world of gayety and forgot tnat 
Maramy lived. 

The holidays came to a close 
with a blinding snowstorm. 

Early in the morning of Janu- 
ary sixth, Mammy rose and 
peeped out, to see the snow piled 
up high. "Pappy," she called, 
"Mammy's child leaves dis morn- 
ing, and ain't nary beaten biscuit 
dere to put in her lunch. Dese 
hands ain't never failed dat child, 
and de snow ain't going to make 
dem fail dis mornin'." 

Pappy sighed. "Mammy, white 
folks don't care long for us lak 
dey used to — ^we's gettin' old and 
no 'count." 

She protested, however, dress- 
ing in the meantime. She pried 
the door open, while a mass of 
snow fell on the inside. The wind 
[15] 



"MAMMY" 

whistled. Bundled up in a shawl, 
she sought the garden gate, but 
just as the gate clicked, an 
avalanche of snow from the roof 
of Stone Ledge fell, burying 
beneath it all that was in its path. 

An impatient little girl won- 
dered why Mammy didn't come 
to give her the beaten biscuits. 

Late in the afternoon, Pappy 
grew weary of waiting and watch- 
ing for her who never stayed away 
so long. Eating the bread and 
milk which she always provided 
for his breakfast did not satisfy 
him for the day. Soon a whistle, 
and then a young man rushed 
into the cabin crying, "Mammy, 
Mammy, come quick. Grandma is 
dead." 

But no Mammy answered. 

Pappy, excited, hobbled to the 
door just in time to see the snow 
[16] 



"MAMMY" 

melting. The red bandanna of 
his mate of fifty years told the 
story. "Until I die!" She had 
kept her vow to the last. He 
swooned to the floor, and how 
long he lay there no one knows. 

Green Hill Cemetery is a beau- 
tiful place, and the most prom- 
inent in it is marked by a monu- 
ment of a soldier in uniform — 
the "Colonel." 

Here his good wife's remains 
were laid to rest amidst the 
funeral rites of Church and state. 

A new board marked the last 
resting-place of "Mammy," to 
which she journeyed in the 
county wagon. 

Outside the County Home, 
occasionally, is seen an old man 
counting his years into a cen- 
tury, who murmurs unceasingly: 
"White folks don't care long for 
[17] 



"MAMMY" 

US lak dey use to — we*s gettin' 
ole and no 'count." 

A sign "For Sale" marks the 
place where Mammy once lived. 

Each year the Brethertons 
make a pilgrimage to Green Hill 
Cemetery to plant flowers, but 
only the kind honeysuckle creeps 
over the grave of the body in 
ebony whose soul was whiter than 
snow. 



[18] 



